He came at me so quickly with his hand outstretched, ready to shake, that I almost backed out of the way. He was in his twenties, with floppy hair and a grin that probably never went away. Former college cheerleader, I’d bet.
“Kitty Norville? You’re Kitty Norville? I’m a big fan! Hi, I’m Wes Brady, it’s great to have you here!”
“Hi,” I said, letting him pump my hand. “So, um. Thanks for letting me set up shop here on such short notice.”
“No problem. Looking forward to it. Come in, have a seat.”
What I really wanted was to have a look at their studio, meet the engineer who’d be running the board for me, then find a hotel, shower, and supper. Wes wanted to chat. He pointed me to a chair in the corner and pulled the one from his desk over.
He said, “So. I’ve always wanted to ask, and now that you’re here, well—”
I prepared for the interrogation.
“Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“Excuse me?”
“On your show. I mean, do you coach callers? Are they actors? Do you have plants? How scripted is it? How many writers do you have? At first I thought it was a gag, we all did. But you’ve kept it up for a year now, and it’s great! I gotta know how you do it.”
I might as well hit my head against a brick wall.
Conspiratorially, I leaned forward over the plastic arm of the retro office chair. He bent toward me, his eyes wide. Because of course I’d give away trade secrets to anyone who asked.
“Why don’t you stick around tonight and find out?”
“Come on, not even a little hint?”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” I stood. “Hey, it’s been great meeting you, but I really should get going.”
“Oh—but you just got here. I could show you around. I could—”
“Is he bothering you?”
A woman in a rumpled navy-blue suit a few years out-of-date, her black hair short and moussed, stood in the doorway, her arms crossed.
“You must be Liz Morgan,” I said, hoping I sounded enthusiastic rather than relieved. “I’m Kitty Norville. My colleague should have been in touch with you.”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.” Thankfully, her handshake was perfectly sedate and functional. “Wes, you have that marketing report for me yet?”
“Um, no. Not yet. Just getting to it now. Be ready in an hour. Yes, ma’am.” Wes bounded to his desk and closed the solitaire game.
Liz gave me exactly the tour I wanted and answered all my questions. Even, “That Wes is a bit excitable, isn’t he?”
“You should see him without his medication.”
She saw me to the door and recommended a good hotel nearby.
“Thanks again,” I said. “It’s always kind of a crap shoot finding a station that’ll even touch my show.”
She shook her head, and her smile seemed long-suffering. “Kitty, we’re five miles from Washington, D.C. There’s nothing you can throw at us that’ll compare with what I’ve seen come out of there.”
I couldn’t say I believed her. Because if she was right, I was about to get into things way over my head.
I returned to the station a couple of hours early and waited to meet Dr. Paul Flemming. I fidgeted. Ivy, the receptionist, told me all kinds of horror stories about traffic in the D.C. area, the Beltway, the unreliability of the Metro, all of it giving me hundreds of reasons to think that Flemming couldn’t possibly arrive in time for the show. It was okay, I tried to convince myself. This sort of thing had happened before. I’d had guests miss their slot entirely. It was one of the joys of live radio. I just had to ad-lib. That was why the phone lines were so great. Somebody was always willing to make an ass out of themselves on the air.
Ivy went home for the evening, so at least the horror stories stopped. Liz and Wes stuck around to watch the show. I paced in the lobby, back and forth. A bad habit. The Wolf’s bad habit. I let her have it—it gave her something to do and kept her quiet. Anxiety tended to make her antsy.
Me. Made me antsy.
Fifteen minutes before start time, a man opened the glass door a foot and peered inside. I stopped. “Dr. Flemming?”
Straightening, he entered the lobby and nodded.
A weight lifted. “I’m Kitty, thanks for coming.”
Flemming wasn’t what I expected. From his voice and the way he carried on, I expected someone cool and polished, slickly governmental, with a respectable suit and regulation haircut. A player. Instead, he looked like a squirrelly academic. He wore a corduroy jacket, brown slacks, and his light brown hair looked about a month overdue for a cut. His long face was pale, except for the shadows under his eyes. He was probably in his mid-forties.
In the same calm voice I recognized from a half-dozen phone calls, he said, “You’re not what I expected.”
I was taken aback. “What did you expect?”
“Someone older, I think. More experienced.” I wasn’t sure if he intended that as a compliment or a mere statement of fact.
“You don’t have to be old to have experience, Doctor.” And what did he know about it? “Come on back and I’ll show you the studio.”
I made introductions all around. I tried to put Flemming at ease; he seemed nervous, glancing over his shoulder, studying the station staff as if filing them away in some mental classification system for later reference. I wasn’t sure if that was his academic nature or his government background at work. He moved stiffly, taking the seat I offered him like he expected it to slide out from under him. The guy was probably nervous in his own living room. Maybe he was relaxed, and this was how he always acted.
I showed him the headphones and mike, found my own headset, and leaned back in my chair, finally in my element.
The sound guy counted down through the booth window, and the first guitar chords of the show’s theme song— Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising”—cued up. It didn’t matter how many different stations I did the show from, this moment always felt the same: it was mine. I had the mike, I was in control, and as long as that ON AIR sign stayed lit, I called the shots. Until something went horribly wrong, of course. I could usually get through the introduction without having a crisis.
“Good evening. This is The Midnight Hour, the show that isn’t afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there. I’m Kitty Norville, your charming hostess.
“I have as my very special guest this evening Dr. Paul Flemming. As you may or may not know, a little over a month ago Dr. Flemming held a press conference that announced scientific recognition of what used to be considered mythical, supernatural forms of human beings. Vampires, werewolves—you know, people like me. He has an M.D. from Columbia University, a Ph.D. in epidemiology from Johns Hopkins, and for the last five years has headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Welcome, Dr. Flemming.”
“Thank you,” he said, managing to sound calm despite the anxious way he perched at the edge of his seat, like he was getting ready to run when the mortars started dropping.
“Dr. Flemming. The Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Am I correct in stating that this is a government-funded organization dedicated to the study of what I believe you’ve called alternate forms of human beings? Vampires, werewolves, et cetera?”
“Only in the simplest terms. The nature of the research was not always explicitly stated.”
“You couldn’t exactly put down ‘Give me money for werewolves,’ could you?”
“Ah, no,” he said, giving me the tiniest smile.
“So this was a secret government research program.”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far. I don’t want to enter the realm of conspiracy theory. The Center’s findings were always available.”
“But in the most obscure outlets. No attention was drawn to a potentially explosive area of research. I would have thought, as part of this research team, you’d have wanted to announce your findings a lot sooner.”
“It’s not so s
imple. You can appreciate that we risked a great amount of criticism if we drew too much attention before we were ready. We needed to have data in hand, and a good potential of public support. Otherwise we would have been relegated to the back pages of the annals of bad science.”
“In your mind, this is clearly a scientific endeavor.”
“Of course. The best way to approach any line of inquiry is through the scientific method.”
I was quite fond of postmodern literary analysis myself, as a line of inquiry. “What drew you to the scientific study of a subject that most people are all too happy to dismiss as folklore?”
“So many legends have a seed of truth. In many cases, that seed of truth persists, even in the face of great skepticism. The existence of a real-life King Arthur for example. How many legitimate historical and archaeological investigations have been inspired by Arthurian literature? Vampire and shape-shifter legends exist all over the world, and I’ve always been struck by the similarities. I simply pursued the seeds of truth at their core.”
I said, “I read a book once about how many vampire mythologies might have grown out of primitive burial practices and superstitions—bloated corpses bursting out of shallow graves with drops of blood on their mouths, as if they’d been feeding. That sort of thing. By the same token, some scholars traced werewolf legends to actual medical conditions marked by excessive hair growth, or psychological disorders that caused periodic animalistic, berserker-type behavior. That’s where scientific inquiry into these subjects usually leads: to rationalizations. What told you that there was something real behind it all?” I was fishing for a personal anecdote. He’d had a run-in with a were-dingo as a small child and it changed him forever, or something.
“I suppose I’ve always appreciated a good mystery,” he said.
“But there are so many other mysteries for a medical doctor to unravel. Like a cure for cancer. Surefire weight loss on a diet of chocolate ice cream.”
“Maybe I wanted to break new ground.”
“Why now? Why last month’s press conference? Why draw attention to your research at this point and not earlier?”
He shrugged and began obviously fidgeting—wringing his hands, adjusting his seat. I felt a little thrill—was I getting to him? Was I making him squirm? Maybe he was just shifting his position on the chair.
“Ideally, a complete report would have been published in a respected journal, making all our findings public. But this isn’t always an ideal world. Members of Congress began taking an interest, and if Congress wants to ask questions, who am I to argue? I wanted everyone to be clear that this project isn’t shrouded in secrecy.”
Could have fooled me. In a rare show of restraint I didn’t say that. I had to be nice; wouldn’t do any good to totally alienate my only source of information.
“What do you ultimately hope to accomplish with the Center?”
“To expand the boundaries of knowledge. Why embark on any scientific endeavor?”
“The quest for truth.”
“It’s what we’re all trying to accomplish, isn’t it?”
“In my experience, this particular subject evokes a lot of strong emotion. People vehemently believe in the existence of vampires, or they don’t. If they do, they firmly believe vampires are evil, or they’re simply victims of a rare disease. Where does this emotion, these strong beliefs, fit into your investigations?”
“We approach this subject only from the standpoint of fact. What can be measured.”
“So if I asked what you believe—”
“I think you know what I believe: I’m studying diseases that can be quantified.”
This was starting to sound circular. And dull. I should have known that Flemming wouldn’t be an ideal interviewee. Every time I’d ever talked to him, he’d been evasive. I’d really have to work to draw him out.
“Tell me how you felt the first time you looked a werewolf in the eyes.”
Until that moment, he hadn’t looked at me. That was pretty normal; there was a lot in a studio booth to distract a newcomer: dials, lights, and buttons. It was natural to look at what you spoke to. People tended to look at the foam head of the microphone.
But now he looked at me, and I looked back, brows raised, urging him on. His gaze was narrow, inquiring, studying me. Like he’d just seen me for the first time, or seen me in a new light. Like I was suddenly one of the subjects in his study, and he was holding me up against the statistics he’d collected.
It was a challenging stare. He smelled totally human, a little bit of sweat, a little bit of wool from his jacket, not a touch of supernatural about him. But I had a sudden urge to growl a warning.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he said.
“Of course it isn’t relevant, but this show is supposed to be entertaining. I’m curious. How about a cold hard fact: when was the first time you looked a werewolf in the eyes?”
“I suppose it would have been about fifteen years ago.”
“This was before you started working with the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology?”
“Yes. I was in the middle of a pathology residency in New York. We’d gotten an anomalous blood sample from a victim of a car accident. The report from the emergency room was horrendous—crushed rib cage, collapsed lungs, ruptured organs. The man shouldn’t have survived, but he did. Somehow they patched him up. I was supposed to be looking for drug intoxication, blood alcohol levels. I didn’t find anything like that, but the white blood cell count was abnormal for a sample with no other sign of disease or infection. I went to see this patient in the ICU the next day, to draw another sample and check for any conditions that might have accounted for the anomaly. He wasn’t there. He’d been moved out of the ICU, because two days after this terrible accident, he was sitting up, off the ventilator, off oxygen, like he’d just had a concussion or something. I remember looking at his chart, then looking up at him, my mouth open with shock. And he smiled. Almost like he wanted to burst out laughing. He seemed to be daring me to figure out what had happened. I didn’t know what he was at the time, but I’ll never forget that look in his eyes. He was the only one who wasn’t shocked that he was still alive. I never forgot that look. It made me realize that for all my knowledge, for all my studies and abilities, there was a whole world out there that I knew nothing about.”
“And the next time you saw that look”—the challenge, the call to prove one’s dominance, like the one I’d just given him—“you recognized it.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ever find out more about him? Did he ever tell you what he was?”
“No. He checked himself out of the hospital the next day. He didn’t have health insurance, so I couldn’t track him. He probably didn’t think he needed it.”
I’d seen werewolves die. It took ripping their hearts out, tearing their heads off, or poisoning them with silver.
“You wanted to find out how he’d survived. How his wounds had healed so quickly.”
“Of course.”
“Is that as far as your research goes? You mentioned once the possibility of a cure.”
“Every scientist who studies a disease wants to find the cure for it. But we don’t even understand these diseases yet. Finding a cure may be some time off, and I don’t want to raise any hopes.”
“How close are you to understanding them? I’ve heard every kind of theory about what causes them, from viral DNA to unbalanced humors.”
“That’s just it, the most interesting feature of these diseases is that they don’t act like diseases. Yes, they’re infectious, they alter the body from its natural form. But far from causing damage or sickness, they actually make their victims stronger. In the case of vampirism, the disease grants near immortality, with relatively innocuous side effects.”
He called the need to drink human blood an innocuous side effect?
He continued. “To learn the secret of how that happens would be a fantastic discovery.” br />
“You’re talking about medical applications.”
He hesitated again, folding his hands on the table in front of him and visibly reining back his enthusiasm. “As I said, I don’t want to raise any hopes. We’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of this field of study.”
I had a feeling that was all I was going to get out of him.
“Okay, I’m going to open the lines for calls now. Do you have any questions for the good doctor—”
His eyes bugged out, like I’d pulled out a gun and pointed it at him. Surely he knew I’d be taking questions from listeners.
Shaking his head, he said, “I’d rather not answer questions from the public.”
Um, problem? “I’m the public,” I said. “You answered my questions.”
“No, not like this,” he said. He put down the headset and pushed his chair away from the table. “I’m sorry.”
Liz, Wes, and the sound guy stared through the booth window, helpless to stop him as he set his shoulders and rushed out of the room.
“Wait, Doctor—” I stood to go after him. Who did that bastard think he was, walking out on me? The wire trailing from my headset tugged at me. The show, I couldn’t leave the show. Damn.
I settled back into my seat. I had to talk quick to cover up the silence. “I’m sorry, it looks like Dr. Flemming has urgent business elsewhere and won’t be able to answer your questions. But I’m still here, and ready for the first call of the evening. Hello, Brancy from Portland . . .”
The Senate hearings were scheduled to start Monday, but I drove into D.C. proper Saturday evening. I had reservations at a hotel close to the Capitol, and within walking distance of many of the tourist attractions. I’d never been to the city. I saw no reason not to make a vacation out of this. I wanted to see the Smithsonian, dammit.
It was hard to drive and keep my eyes on the road, not craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial. I’d checked a map; it had to be close. I didn’t even know if I was looking in the right place. The sun was setting, casting a smog-tinted orange glow over the city. Sightseeing would have to wait until tomorrow it seemed.